


Where You Lie

by Dance_Elle_Dance



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Dark, Drama, F/M, Horror, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 07:46:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4658379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dance_Elle_Dance/pseuds/Dance_Elle_Dance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of Reid's recurring nightmares involves Prentiss, bloodied and broken, rasping for his help, and he can do nothing to aid her. (Originally posted on 5/27/10.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where You Lie

**Author's Note:**

> Re-post of another Criminal Minds fanfic I wrote way back. I love Spencer and Emily together and hopefully y'all enjoy this (darker) take on them. Thanks for reading!

He runs.

His breath comes out in desperate, ragged gasps - he's never been much of an athlete, he knows this, but still, he tries his hardest, knowing what he will find if he doesn't get there in time.

It is pitch black around him, the darkness seeming to smother him. The blackness around him reaches out with cold, chilling fingers that want to wrap around his throat.

Somehow, in the midst of the darkness, he knows where he is going.

This is all painfully familiar, and it scares him.

His legs cry out at him to stop, which is strange, because certainly there isn't supposed to be any physical pain in his dreams, right?

He digresses, opting to continue running. He was fast when he was a kid, though. He had to be to get away from all of the bullies and teasing. He supposes that it helps him now, so he doesn't complain, doesn't even dwell on that fact.

His mind, usually muddled with different thoughts, different perspectives, is solely on her.

Spencer Reid has to _save_ her.

His feet echo off of the ground, stony and uneven underneath him. The sounds bounce back to his ears too close, as if he is in an enclosed corridor, but he knows he is not, for he can move his hands outward and not hit a thing.

Thus is the complications of dreams.

Surprisingly, he doesn't just stop and tell himself that this is just a dream, because somewhere, he knows it already. His rational mind tells him to stop running and wake himself up, but then, that would be giving up, and he doesn't want to face what he will find if he doesn't _hurry up._

In a way, if he tells himself to wake up, it is like quitting. But, then again, it is hard to wake up from a dream once you get so far into it. This is what Reid's dreams are usually like - all-encompassing, hard to escape from, and utterly absorbing.

So, he runs.

He runs and runs; long, lanky legs propel him forward better than he'd ever imagine they'd hold up.

Reid runs until his sides burn with the exertion, limber leg muscles scream at him to stop.

He can't.

_Won't._

He falls, somehow, in his frenzied running, and skins his legs along the cobbled stones in his dream. This causes pain to shoot up and down his knees. Slender fingers scrape against his knee, feel the sticky blood against his palm. He winces at the unexpected pain, because this is his subconscious, after all. Why would he be feeling pain?

He dismisses this and gets up on wobbly legs, like that of a newborn calf, and starts stumbling forward.

Reid doesn't know how much longer he runs. It feels like hours, when in reality it was probably only minutes. His exhausted body has no clue of the difference in time. Here, it all seems the same, dragging on and on like some sick dirge, announcing his impending failure.

No, no, _no_. He will not fail again. He can't.

He pushes onward, and now he truly is in a corridor. The spacious atmosphere from before narrows into a stairwell, stony and foreboding on the sides, and claustrophobia chokes him.

A smell, pungent and cloying, fills his nostrils with the scent of rust and salt. It is a smell he knows all too well; normally he would think it was from the wound that was now inflicted on his knee, but there is too much…too much _blood_ in the air that blocks the rest of his senses.

He pants and pants, tries to catch his breath but he cannot. There are suddenly stairs now, appearing out of no where, and they lead him down, down, _down_ into this pit of what can only be referred to as hell.

Shaky, bloody fingers smooth along the side of the corridor. They allow him to feel his way down into the space where he knows what awaits.

Something, further down into the space catches his ear.

Faint, but recognizable, a feminine voice shrieks.

Even though the sound is slight, it is almost magnified, due to his lack of vision, his other senses become more acute.

Once the screams reach his ears, he picks up his pace, runs despite his aching body.

The smell of blood intensifies as he goes further down, as do the screams. A cackling, maniacal laugh now accompanies it. The sound sends chills down Reid's spine, and sweat drips down his brow as he races toward the sounds of chaos still.

He pushes himself faster; he desperately needs to get to the bottom of this endless stairwell. It is indescribable how much he wants to get to the place where he has failed so many times before. The screams are now louder than he has ever heard them, the smell makes him sick to his stomach.

His feet clop on the steps frantically.

And before he knows it, there it is.

In front of him, almost so abruptly that he smacks right into it, is a heavy, mahogany door. A window is on the front of it, bars in front of the glass, but it is too small for anyone to possibly wish of climbing through.

He reaches out with a pale, trembling hand and pushes as hard as he can. The door is never locked in this dream - why should it be now?

The screams, the _screams…_

He feels tears prick his eyes as he realizes how late he is. And he thought he was doing so well this time…

She lays, in the center of the cellar-like room, blood all around her thin frame. Her skin is snow white, and she is covered in blood. Various cuts and bruises adorn her frame, some deeper than others, but the result is all the same.

"Reid…" she rasps.

Prentiss is _dying._

Reid feels tears - tears of frustration, tears of sorrow, tears of failure- fall down his cheeks despite himself.

He forgets the man that sits in the corner, watching his every move, and races over to her, cradling her bloodied form in his hands. Her throat has been cut as well, not a deep cut, but deep enough. Her blood spills onto his arm as he holds her head up. He sees that her wrists have also been slashed somewhat. He doesn't even want to assess the rest of the damage, he is too beside himself with grief.

His fingers stroke her cheek and he buries his head in her hair as he pulls her dying form toward him. He moves his hand to her hair and caresses her deep brown hair as his tears soak her shirt.

The man in the corner laughs.

He is never a big burly guy. Usually, he is very slender and slight, but bigger in build than Reid himself, like most people.

She gives a cough and flecks of blood splatter his shirt and her cheeks.

She grows cold in his arms, and he knows he has failed yet again.

Sorrow overwhelms him, and he places her body down on the floor.

"You're never going to be strong enough," the man taunts. He wears a simple black cloak and Reid can't make out his facial features, no matter how much he squints he can never get a read on him.

Reid rises, spins around to face him, chest heaving. The brunette lays motionless in a growing pool of blood next to him. There is no gun on his belt - in these dreams, there never is. He clenches his fist and tries to remember all of the things Morgan had taught him about throwing a punch.

With a scream, he charges -

\- and wakes up, sweating through his sheets.

Reid shoots up in bed, hair in wild disarray. His eyes are as wide as saucers and he breathes heavily, heaving huge gulps of air in his lungs as if he were running out of the precious oxygen.

Somehow, the shooting pangs of exhaustion have transferred from the awful dream to reality, and his legs actually feel tired, as well as the rest of him. Physically, mentally, emotionally, he is wiped out.

He leans back into the pillows, not wanting to view the darkness of his bedroom. It reminds him too much of that corridor, of the panic, of the _screams._

The sweat sticks to his body, and causes him to cool down somewhat. But his hands still shake as they clench the fabric of his sheets. His heart still pounds, as if he were still running down that God forsaken cobblestone street.

The memories of the nightmare never leave him. Reid thinks about it when he shouldn't. Like when he stands near Prentiss at work. Once, they hadn't cleared the body out of a crime scene yet when they arrived, and the victim was a brunette. Reid had almost lost it then and there, thinking that he had failed to save her in real life this time…

He groans and turns to bury his face in his pillow, but once he closes his eyes all he can see is her laying there, with her slit throat and blank eyes, staring up at him almost screaming accusations at him.

Reid turns on his side, and brings the pillow to his chest, clutches it tightly as he clenches his eyes tightly shut, as if to quell the demons that surround him.

His breath is easier now, but still it is hard to draw the air into his chest.

He can almost hear her in his ear, harshly whispering, _"Why didn't you save me?"_

"I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_ …" he murmurs into the softness of the pillow, as if that would make it any better.

The silence deafens him.

He can do nothing, except hope and pray that it never happens in real life, that this only will haunt him in his dreams.

But, if something like that does happen to come around, he won't let it play out like his nightmares usually do.

By some weird, twisted strand of fate, if that happens…

Then, well, Reid will do whatever it takes to save her.

No other option would be acceptable.


End file.
